Cold and the ways to ward it off
by Kamikaze Pedestrian
Summary: The cold season leaves the branches bare, the ground frozen and the sky gray. They keep close. Jet/Smellerbee, Jet/Longshot, Longshot/Smellerbee and Jet/Smellerbee/Longshot. Warning for sexual themes and shameless ship-indulgence.


Early October morning and the rain pours down heavily, making the branches slippery and difficult to hold on to. Even though he has climbed this very tree countless times before, Jet is panting slightly when he reaches the platform at the crown. His breath comes in small clouds of white smoke. It will be a cold day.

Smellerbee is crouching near the edge, sheltered from the falling rain by a piece of worn tarp strung up above her, staring out at the gloomy forest with unbroken concentration. The sound of raindrops hitting the fabric and the wooden boards of the platform is deafening. Jet takes a few steps forwards and gets no reaction. She hasn't heard him coming.

He sneaks soundlessly up behind her, one hand on the swords on his back to keep them from clanking against each other. When he's close enough he reaches out and yanks at the back straps of her armour so she loses her balance, tumbling backwards out into the rain.

"Gotcha!"

Her initial expression of surprise and alarm turns into a friendly scowl and she gets to her feet, wiping the water from her face. Jet grins and shifts the stalk in his mouth, stepping in under the tarp. Not that taking cover makes much of a difference now. His pants and shirt are soaked through, clinging to his body, and you could probably wring out his tunic and take a swim in the resulting pond.

"Watch your back." He has to almost shout to make himself heard over the rain.

"Easier said than done today," Smellerbee replies and before he has a chance to respond, she adds: "It isn't your turn to take over the watch yet."

"I know. Just thought I'd check up on you."

She gives him a look but says nothing as she sits down. Smellerbee knows she doesn't need checking up on. Jet knows she still doesn't mind him dropping by.

They watch the rain side by side. The forest smells of moss and rotting leaves, a sharp but not unpleasant scent. Jet shifts, tensing to stop a shiver before it shakes his body too noticeably. The weather is getting to him now that he's sitting still, chilliness seeping through his damp clothes.

It's alright, though. The cold season is somewhat relaxing, despite the constant freezing and the difficulty finding food. Fire doesn't spread as far in rain-drenched or snow-covered woods.

Two of the leather straps of Smellerbee's chest armour have come undone, Jet notices. His fault, no doubt, and he starts tying them together without really reflecting on it. Smellerbee throws a glance over her shoulder to see what he's up to, then turns back to surveying the endless lines of trees stretching before them. She should. _She's_ on watch.

He lets his hand linger there, on her back. For a short moment he holds still and waits to see if she'll swat him away, and when she doesn't he moves a little further down, tugging at the hem of her jacket tucked into her pants and slipping his hand underneath it, searching until he finds bare skin. She is very warm.

The thick, durable fabric is rough against the back of his hand; Smellerbee's skin is smooth under his palm. Crouching like this her muscles are taut and her spine protrudes in a straight line of rounded pebbles he traces with his fingertips until the leather tied around her torso blocks his way and he can't reach any further.

It stays with him, her warmth in his hand, not immediately erased by the chilly air around them as he wraps his arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her close.

"But you're all wet," she protests, her words almost inaudible in the rain. He pretends not to hear and soon she leans against him anyway, giving in to persistence. He knew she would.

Her hair is tickling his cheek, his nose when he turns his head to look down at her. Jet combs his fingers through it, getting hitched in the knots and untangling them as well as he can. He runs his fingertips over her ear, down the side of her neck, finding her pulse. It beats hot and reassuring under his touch, speeding up as he lets his other hand travel down her arm, pausing for a moment on her hip and continuing down her leg. There he stops, fingers pressing against the inside of her thigh in a silent question.

Smellerbee seems calm, sitting very still, but her pulse is too fast to be counted. Jet waits, waits some more, and is just about to take the silence as a no and back off when she gives him a slant smile and begins unbuckling her belt. That, if anything, is a yes.

"I'm supposed to be on watch, though," she says once she's seated with her back against his chest, lips close to his ear.

"Yeah." Jet clears his throat and looks her in the eyes with feigned seriousness. "Very irresponsible of you, Smellerbee." This makes her laugh.

When he starts back to the hideout his hair is almost dry, his fingers wrinkly and wet.

--

Early November morning and the frost covers every twig on every tree in the forest. The sun is rising slowly, the first rays of daylight making the ice crystals that overgrew the hideout during the night shimmer and sparkle. Longshot pushes the tarp covering the tent opening aside and draws fresh air into his lungs, exhaling slowly in a small cloud of white smoke. It will be a cold day.

His steps make faint crunching sounds as he walks to the edge of the frosty platform. Besides that, the hideout is quiet and still. Stretching the sleepiness out of his limbs he listens for birdcalls in the distance, for the chirping signals of sparrows that should have left for the warmth of the south weeks ago. There is only silence. That is good.

A calm night means a calm morning, a calm that will hopefully last for more than a few hours. Some undisturbed time to make plans, to think ahead, to get well needed rest. The soldiers have been making raids into the woods, closer to their base each time, and though the threat of being captured isn't grave, not yet, it puts an added strain on them all.

There's a sudden rustle somewhere above, the creak of a rope bridge and the swish of a zip line. When he looks up, Longshot spots a familiar silhouette on the next platform for just a second before it disappears behind the trunk of the tree.

On a hunch, he returns inside the tent to grab a spare tunic from a rattan box underneath the bed before yanking at the rope connecting the different parts of the tree, tensing his muscles to brace himself for the sharp tug on his arm as he is pulled upwards. His landing is barely audible, only a faint thump against the boards, but something stirs in the shadows and a moment later Jet steps out into the light, only far enough to make his presence known. Longshot tightens his grip on the tunic with a feeling of amused exasperation. Just as he thought, Jet isn't wearing a shirt, despite the cold.

The greeting is short. Jet's attention is elsewhere, focused on a thin trail of smoke rising over the bare treetops. It's far away. But not far enough.

"Look at that," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "They think they're on to us."

Though his tone of voice is light, his eyebrows are knitted and he doesn't turn to watch the reply. He doesn't when Longshot holds the shirt out for him to take, either.

"I'm not freezing."

Longshot subtly shifts his weight from one foot to the other and tilts his head with a frown. Jet's arms are covered in goose bumps. He urges the shirt against his leader a second time, met with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"I won't be out here much longer."

They both know it's a lie.

Jet will keep staring at the smoke until every Freedom Fighter is awake with eyes impossible to tell if narrowed in anger or merely squinting against the pale November sun. He will lean against the trunk of the tree, chewing at the stalk but otherwise immoveable. Later, when they're all assembled, his lips will be blue, his eyes aglow with determination and his gestures wide, painting a picture of their upcoming victory in the air before them.

He is stubborn, but Longshot can be, too, holding the piece of clothing in his outstretched hand until the muscles of his arm are aching slightly and his persistence is impossible for Jet to ignore. Finally, Jet pushes himself off the trunk, shaking his head.

"Fine. To spare you the nagging," he says with a smile in his voice as he pulls his arms through the sleeves. They're a little too short. Longshot laughs inwardly and reaches out to straighten a crease on his shoulder.

The tunic is blue; the hem is white. Jet's skin is tan, looking darker and warmer than usual against the fabric, against the surrounding shimmer of the frost covered trees. He is as warm as he looks.

Longshot lets is hand linger there, on Jet's shoulder. For a short moment he hovers above, barely touching, then he rests his palm down, close to his neck, almost cupping it.

For the first time that morning, Jet meets his gaze. The smoke is still rising over the trees, but his eyes don't flicker more than once and only briefly. Longshot's thumb moves in small circles just above his collarbone, the movement a silent question. When Jet cocks a brow and grins, his teeth are very white.

There's a fading bruise on the other side of his neck, greenish yellow just beneath the skin. One hand still on Jet's shoulder, Longshot let's his fingers travel slowly over Jet's chest, from the bruise and down, over skin prickly with goose bumps and striped with shadows from the branches above.

Jet breathes evenly, standing perfectly still, but his calm is fake, a conscious effort. Longshot traces the hollowness of his navel, traces a long scar running from his hip where it draws a slant, pale line across his belly. He follows it to the lining of Jet's pants, then further down and inside.

When Jet inhales sharply, the stalk falls from his lips.

--

Early December morning and the ice is thick in the frozen water barrels. Smellerbee breaks it to sharp-edged pieces with the hilt of her dagger until her shoulders ache and her fingers go numb from the cold. Her nose is stopped-up, and though it's been weeks since the first sneeze a stubborn cough refuses to release its hold, waking her up several times each night. She breathes through her mouth in small clouds of white smoke. It will be a cold day.

The earth is hard; the frost in the ground goes deep. She shifts, getting to work on the next barrel, and the little bumps and irregularities beneath dig into her feet, not giving way for her weight. There's no snow. The sky is constantly grey with clouds, but nothing falls from them. The forest looks colorless and sullen. It feels like weeks since they last saw the sun.

They keep some water supplies down here, at the base of a tree, hidden in the bushes. In winter, the leaves dry and crumple while still on the twigs, not falling until new, velvety buds grow out to replace them. The barrels are carefully guarded at all times. If they're spotted by Fire Nation soldiers it would give the hideout away, but the comfort of waking up to already fetched fresh water in the mornings is worth the risk, at least to those not assigned to the tedious task of breaking the ice.

Smellerbee puts a little more force into her next stab. She won't complain. It's either this or lugging heavy buckets back and forth later in the day and she knows what she prefers.

The passage through the thick, dried-up foliage is narrow, close to the ground, and she crawls through it on her knees and elbows, careful not to support herself on her hands. They smart, her fingers bright red and blood-filled, so swollen she can't clench her fists completely. Her gloves are dry and warm in her pocket, but right now they wouldn't fit. Frowning, she tucks her hands into her armpits, nodding to the guard outside, a short boy whose fringe covers his eyes. As she starts walking toward the outskirts of the hideout, she hears his birdcalls telling the rest of the fighters to come fetch their water behind her.

In the winter-gloomy woods, the red and blue of Longshot's clothes are easily discernible. With the centre of the base some distance away, there's more space between the trees; they're not too far from a clearing. It's Longshot's favourite place to practice archery. It has become one of her favourite spots, too.

She doesn't muffle her steps, the tall, wilted grass rustling as she makes her way through it. Longshot stands with his back to her, taking aim but not letting the arrow fly. Smellerbee doesn't call out to him. There's no need. In the line of his shoulders she can see he's already heard her, and when there are five feet between them he turns around with a smile. He looks at her, scrutinizing, and blinks once.

"The gloves? In my pocket," Smellerbee replies.

Longshot tilts his head half an inch.

"It wouldn't have made any difference if I'd worn them."

A whole inch.

"Yeah, _now_, but—"

He interrupts her by taking her hands, wrapping his fingers around hers, enclosing them completely. His palms are dry and feel very warm, unusually so. It isn't until now she understands how cold she must really be. Longshot squeezes her fingers and breathes on them to warm them up. It barely works. The warmth from his breath disappears quickly, leaving a damp coldness behind, different from the earlier, biting chill.

Gently, she pulls her hands out of his grip. There are better ways of getting warm.

The sash keeping his tunic close is difficult to loosen with stiff, fumbling fingers. He helps her out a bit, brows inquiringly raised. Smellerbee doesn't answer. She moves the fabric aside, just enough to sneak her hands inside to touch bare skin, placing them on his hips. He tenses –she's still very cold- but doesn't move away.

She lets her hands linger there, on his hips. When she steps in closer he puts the bow aside to rest his arms on her shoulders, and when she presses her freezing nose against his chest she thinks she can feel his smile even though she can't see it.

Longshot smells nice. Of earth and grass and something entirely his own. The hair on his chest is tickling her lips, not-quite-coarse against the tip of her nose. She sticks her tongue out and the skin beneath is a little salty, a little harsh.

It isn't until his pants brush against the side of her hands she realizes she's been drawing downwards. Smellerbee hesitates, waiting for a reaction, but when there is none she slides two fingers under the band, makes it a silent question.

Her heart is beating dull, heavy thumps in her ears as she waits for the answer. When it comes, a small shift of his body against her and a deep breath, it beats even harder. She follows the band around his hips, moving slowly. Longshot's grip on her shoulders tighten gradually, so little each time that she doesn't notice until it's close to hurting. Smellerbee reaches the knot at the front. Unties it.

Her hands soon feel almost too hot.

--

Early January morning and the snow that fell overnight weighs down the tarp, making the tent seem even smaller. They sleep huddled together under pelts and blankets, as close as they can to ward off the cold. The bed is simple, hanging a few feet off the floor in ropes tied to the branches, but it warms up fast. They don't freeze much at night.

Longshot wakes first, a persistent ray of sunshine prying his eyelids open. He blinks at the bulging ceiling, at the dark contours of the snow contrasting against the few uncovered spots where the morning light makes the orange material glow. The straw mattress rustles softly as he tentatively stretches a foot outside of the bed, then quickly retreats under the covers, shuddering. The floor boards feel as though they were made out of ice.

Beside him, the others are still asleep. No need to get up just yet.

Smellerbee lies on her stomach in the middle of the bed, face buried in the pillow. She sleeps lightly through the nights, but is impossible to get out of bed some mornings unless she's dragged. The mattress shifting from Longshot's movements is a disturbance reaching her through the fatigue. Drowsily, she turns her head and yawns, no longer asleep but not quite awake, either.

The sunlit air is full of little specks of dust; when she sniffles, her nose is filled with them, too. She sneezes, twice.

Jet snaps awake and bolts upright, fingers around the hilt of his sword in less than a second. He looks around a little wild-eyed, for a short moment unable to tell where the dreams end and reality takes over. In the tent, the reddish light is cool and still, far from flickering heat. The bed swings and the ropes creak when he lets himself fall heavily back on the pillow.

His laughter is morning-hoarse and low. The snow muffles the sound, smoothens any edge there might be to it.

Longshot reaches out to touch Jet good morning on the temple, Smellerbee on the cheek. Jet rests himself up on his elbow and moves in closer, wrapping an arm around them both. Smellerbee rolls on her back, rubbing her eyes. There are fingers combing the hair from Jet's forehead, a hand cupping Longshot's neck, the pad of a thumb brushing over Smellerbee's lips.

They don't go back to sleep.


End file.
